


Crooked Crown

by stereomer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	Crooked Crown

There's always a voice in the back of Frank's head, tiny and barely registering after years of shrugging it off, but still present nonetheless. It says things like, _this is a bad idea_ , and  _it's satisfying now, but there'll be consequences later._  Or,  _this is the line and you're about to cross it._  Someone had once said that Frank had no conscience, which wasn't true because hi, voice in his head. He totally did have a conscience - it was just that he wasn't much of a slave to it. 

In any case, the voice dampens out even quicker than usual this time and he's then free to scribble 'BALLS' in Sharpie over each page of Gerard's brand new issue of  _Hellboy_  before stuffing it back underneath the seat to be discovered later on.

 

*

 

"I mean, you had to know that he was going to get real pissed at you," Ray says in a calm, affable voice, pretty much the same as always. Frank imagines that if Ray were to beat anyone to death, he'd do it while telling the unlucky victim, "You had to know this was coming, and I'm really sorry that it had to end this way," in that same casual but still sincere tone. 

"He lost my bag. Do you know how many bags I have, Ray?" Frank holds his fingers up in a peace sign. "Two. Two bags to last me this entire tour. And he loses one of them."

"Yeah, but that was an accident. I think. But yours, yours was out of pure  _spite_." Ray flicks the word out with satisfaction. He shakes his head. "Oh man, he's so pissed. You know how Gerard gets when he's pissed."

Frank pats the chest pocket of his jean jacket and withdraws his pack of cigarettes. "Shrill," he answers as he sticks one into his mouth and lights it. Gerard doesn't get supremely pissed all that often; it's kind of fucked up, but Frank feels a shot of anticipation run through him, from the back of his neck and all the way down to his feet. He bounces up on tiptoe a little, then rests back on his heels. He'll feel guilty if Gerard stays pissed for more than one day, but strangely enough, it doesn't seem like that bad of a possibility at the moment. 

Then he realizes that what he's really craving is the attention. He continues to smoke his cigarette with a tiny frown as he contemplates this new feeling. 

 

*

 

A few days later, they're pulled into an Arco station on the I-5, stretching and shaking the feeling back into their arms and legs. Matt is actually trying to vacuum the van as Ray supervises and points out spots that need cleaning. They'd been finding dust balls the size of that rolling boulder in  _Indiana Jones_ lately; there were limits, and there were fucking  _limits_. 

Frank treks back across the lot, wiping his still wet hands on his jeans. He never has the patience to stand around for those goddamn air dryers. His path converges with Mikey's, who is emerging from the convenience store with a plastic bag hanging from each hand. One of them is full of bottles - the condensation makes the plastic cling to them and Frank sees Diet Cokes, Mickeys, and some Red Bulls. 

"Ready?" Frank asks, crossing behind Mikey to pluck out a Diet Coke before falling into step beside him. 

"Yeah," Mikey sighs. Rightfully so, since it's his turn to be squished up front with boxes and two guitar cases that are bookended by more boxes. Frank holds his bottle by the neck and lets it swing against Mikey's shoulder like a pendulum. Mikey makes a brief face in return. 

When they get back to the van, Gerard's already inside, wearing his black hoodie even though they're almost passing through the Grapevine and it's hot as fuck. 

"Want a drink?" Mikey asks as he climbs in. 

"Nah, it's cool. Thanks though."

"Dude, aren't you hot in that thing?" Frank asks. 

Gerard doesn't look up. Frank actually finds himself waiting for an answer, half-stooped over with the back of his head almost hitting the ceiling of the van. By the time he realizes that Gerard is still ignoring him, he has a crick in his neck and the bottle feels slippery in his hand. 

"Okay, cool," Frank answers himself. He catches Mikey's eye and pulls the corners of his mouth down, his expression saying  _oops_. His next decision is probably a really shitty and annoying thing to do, but Frank shifts his body and clambers into the backseat even though it's supposed to be Ray's turn to sit there. "Move over," he tells Gerard, then plops down immediately. 

Gerard scoots away and flips a page of his magazine. 

Frank toes off his shoes and turns so that his back is against the wall. His feet land in Gerard's lap. 

Gerard angles his knees away until Frank's feet slide off and thump to the floor. 

Frank snorts. He gives up and tucks his legs up to his chest. 

"Hey Mikey, hand me a Red Bull," Gerard says. There's a rustling of plastic and Mikey hands Gerard a can. "Thanks."

The noise of the can opening is lost as Matt gets into the driver's seat and Ray, after looking in at Frank through the back window, sighs and gets into the passenger side. The van pulls out onto the road as Frank calls, "Sorry, Ray. I swear, you'll get double time in the backseat later on when - "

He jerks instinctively, hands flying up. Gerard is looking at him with a smile and an almost empty can of Red Bull. 

"Oops," he says, in his best innocent voice. 

 

*

 

Frank's guitar keeps sticking to the dried-then-re-wet-with-sweat patch of Red Bull on his shirt during the show, and it's fucking annoying as hell. Whenever he moves or plays a chord, his shirt rides up and twists around his stomach until he's practically running around on stage in a midriff top. After 'Vampires', he walks over to his amp and turns his back to the audience as he readjusts his shirt for the ten billionth time. He sticks the pick in his mouth and tries to yank the material back into place.

When he finally decides to give it up, he turns around and sees Gerard giving him a funny look. Frank glares back as Matt starts in with the drums, then concentrates on the guitar neck as he pounds out the verse. The next time he glances up, Gerard is right there in his face, screaming the lyrics with his hair hanging over his open mouth. 

Frank strums out the last chord of the chorus, holds the position on the fretboard, and kisses him. 

 

*

 

"This time he's pissed and confused," Ray explains, twitching around to try and get a better position for his ass on the back bumper of the van. 

"Jesus, are you like Maury now? Is that it?" Frank snaps a little. Even though he played his ass off, he feels like he has enough energy leftover to run a mile. Maybe not literally. Mostly he feels like he has enough energy to shove Gerard into that shadowy nook inside the venue and spend a couple hours there, but Gerard's been avoiding him. The kiss had been three nights ago; Frank's surprised there hasn't been a retaliation yet.

Ray says, "No, if it's emotional, it's Dr. Phil. I'll be Maury when you start smoking pot and eating Costco boxes of veggie burgers again."

"What, you're going to send me to boot camp? Like those crazy maladjusted kids?" 

"Well, with yours and his sandbox flirting style, I don't really think you'd be out of place," Ray says serenely.

Frank balks out a, " _What_?" even though he hates it when Ray gets all 'o wise one' on him. Mr. High and Fucking Mighty. Like Ray never acts stupid. Well, he doesn't, technically, but that's only because he doesn't even try to talk to anyone. He'll just give the eye to some chick for hours and slink away at the end of the night. Anticlimactic as fuck.

"What?" Ray asks after a beat, as if he's lost track of the conversation. 

"No, fuck you, you don't get to do that," Frank pushes, but without venom. He's too busy being interested in the part where Ray had implied this shit was mutual.

"You - I mean, fine, okay," Ray folds. "Fine. You can't tell me that all this" - he waves his hands around and ash falls from his cigarette - "all this shit isn't just beating around the fucking bush. You two are practically pulling each other's pigtails and running away."

"So it's him too, right? I'm not just imagining this?" Frank rubs his chin and stares out into the inky black beyond the venue. 

Silence, and then Ray sighs, "It's just going to get worse, isn't it."

Frank contemplates this. "Maybe."

Ray finishes his beer in one swig.

 

*

 

The next day they're in Austin, and it feels like an armpit. Mikey walks around with his fingers splayed out, trying to prevent any part of his body from touching another because sweat has this really strange way of acting like caulking glue when you haven't showered for a fucking week. The heat is making Frank irritable, and he can't help rolling his eyes when Mikey keeps complaining about feeling gross. These  _people_ , seriously.

Someone pounds on the bathroom door. "Soundcheck, dude," Matt calls, his voice muffled.

"Yeah, yeah," Frank says to the mirror. He splashes another handful of water over his face and walks out of the bathroom without bothering to dry off, just letting the excess drip off his chin and over his neck as he makes his way to the stage. It's already drying by the time he picks up his guitar and slings the strap over his shoulder. 

"Hey," he starts to call to Ray as he strums a G chord, nice and easy. Instead of notes ringing out, the guitar makes a weird, choked noise and every single one of his strings breaks in succession,  _pop pop pop pop pop pop_ , like dominoes down the line. Each tiny explosion scares the shit out of him, but it's over before he can even process it, his hand already hanging down by where the high E string used to be. 

He lets go of the neck like he's been burned. The guitar bumps against his stomach, letting out a tuneless jingle. "Holy shit, what the fuck!"

"Jesus, Frank." Ray walks over and leans down to examine the strings hanging limply from the bridge. "What the hell happened?"

"Fucking heart attack, holy shit." Frank presses his palm to his chest. "I don't - " He cuts off as Gerard walks by. Their eyes meet. Gerard glances at the guitar, then back up at Frank, then disappears backstage. 

It clicks. "Fuck," Frank growls. He hauls his guitar over his head and almost slams it down before he has the presence of mind to rest it gently on one of the stands in the corner. 

"Frank? Soundcheck?" Ray calls. 

Frank ignores him and stomps backstage. Everyone moves out of the way of his warpath, or maybe he's just having a serious case of tunnel vision right now. Anyhow, he zeroes in on Gerard hanging out with some dude by a green plastic garbage can, one hand shoved into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and the other holding onto a plastic cup as he does that stupid thing where he stands with one foot in front of the other and sort of rocks back and forth while talking. 

Frank fits himself in between them by stepping sideways right under Gerard's nose, effectively stopping the conversation. Gerard blinks at him in surprise. 

"What?" he asks after a while. He's a better liar than Frank ever would have given him credit for. Frank wants to yell,  _you fuck with my guitar, I fuck with your voice, motherfucker!_  while strangling him. Or,  _you fuck with my guitar, I fuck with your voice, motherfucker!_  while fucking his mouth, hard. Would they yield the same amount of damage? Frank finds himself pondering this way too deeply. 

Gerard is still staring at him. "Frank?" 

Frank turns around and asks, "Sorry, do you mind?" in his most polite voice. The guy shrugs, says goodbye to Gerard with a singular upwards jerk of his chin, and walks away. As soon as he's out of earshot, Frank leans in close and hisses, "Quit messing with my shit." 

To his credit, Gerard doesn't even flinch. He just meets Frank's glare evenly. "Who's messing with your shit? I'm not." 

And he takes a deliberate sip from his cup before turning on his heel and ambling off.

 

*

 

Frank is kind of drunk. 

"I'm about to do something drastic," Frank yells at Matt, even though he's about two inches away from his face. " _Drastic_."

"Drastic," Matt echoes. He nods while staring at some point above Frank's head, then sips his beer. Probably scoping out the bar for ladies. Matt actually does pretty well, because his strategy is to make a move right away. If the girl goes for it, then great. If she doesn't, Matt backs off really easily, just smiles and tells her to have a nice night. For some reason, this makes him more appealing. Either way, most of the girls go for it. 

Frank only wishes this were that easy. He pokes Matt in the shoulder. "Dude, I know you're just nodding to humor me."

Matt looks at him and laughs. "Drastic," he repeats. "I'm listening, little man."

"I swear. I'm gonna - I'm gonna - "

"Mm hmm," Matt encourages. 

"I'm gonna  _do - his - laundry_ ," Frank threatens. He pokes the table this time for emphasis. "And I'm gonna use  _fabric softener_."

"Jesus, Frank." Matt cracks up. Frank laughs too, even though it's less funny from his end. "Have you always had it this fucking bad? I never even noticed."

"The dreads hid it pretty well," Frank tells Matt. 

Matt sort of thunks the base of his beer bottle against Frank's forehead, then ruffles his hair up. These are the rare moments where Frank actually feels like the youngest guy in the band. The rest of the time, Mikey's kind of slouching after everyone else or trying to make animals out of blades of grass or whatever - those aren't prime examples, but the point is that Mikey seems like the youngest. The point is also that Frank  _does_  have it this fucking bad indeed. Truth be told, he's more excited than pissed at this point.

He puts his head down on the table and breathes in the smell of beer and fetid water.

 

*

 

During the second to last song of the show the next night, Gerard is singing while facing Ray, giving Frank more than half the stage to move around in. He's exhausted and panting pretty hard by this point though, so he just chugs away at the chords while staring at the way Gerard is holding the mic against his chest like a prayer and hunching over it. 

Ray goes into his solo. Frank starts playing half-time as he walks up to Gerard, grabs the back of his collar, and tugs him backward. A mash of wet hair pushes up against Frank's mouth; he moves to the side and cranes his neck a little to kiss Gerard's ear before dragging his open mouth down over Gerard's jaw. 

Gerard leans into it.

 

*

 

"I'm running out of ideas," Frank says. He swings his feet and his heels bounce against the back window. His bare heels, since Gerard had thrown his shoes out of the moving van earlier that day. He was starting to play dirty. Meanwhile, Frank's last attempt at a prank had backfired completely, since he himself was the one who came out of it all shaky and thrown off. Gerard had  _leaned into it._

Something thumps back from inside the van. Probably Mikey sitting up and hitting the glass with his fist. Ray holds up one hand to his eyebrows to ward off the sun and says, "How did you even get up there?"

"Seriously, I'm out. Where did all my creativity go?" Frank asks the sky. 

"This could be an anti-drug commercial," says Ray.

"Blow me."

"You might actually be tall enough for me to do it comfortably now."

Frank pauses. "Blow me," he says again. 

"You really must be out of ideas. I left it wide open with a terrible joke and you can't even make a decent comeback." Apparently Ray is getting tired of holding his hand up. He drops his arm to his side and just squints up at Frank unabashedly. "Wanna come down from the top of the van now? I'll help you brainstorm."

"Nah. View's good from up here." If he sits up straight, he can see Gerard at the other end of the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. The lot is practically void of any cars and Gerard seems so small, just standing there by himself.

 

*

 

Frank is kind of drunk again. 

"This is a delicate situation to keep continuing, you know, because I don't want him to get mad as in, 'I'm so mad I'm never talking to you again.' I want the 'I'm so mad, I could fuck you through a wall' type mad. You know? Maybe I can declare a game of tag, with my dick as base. You guys can't go to base, though, 'cause it's gonna be a fixed game," Frank babbles. He has no idea what he's saying. 

Ray has his face in his hands. Matt is digging his finger into his ear with an awkward expression.

"God, whatever. This is stupid." Frank waves his hands in front of him, shooing away the temptation of stupid ideas.

"Maybe you just need to get laid," Matt suggests, like it's a grand original idea. "By someone who's not Gerard," he adds, just as Frank confirms, "By Gerard."

"Eh?" Frank asks after a confused pause. Matt just shakes his head. "Listen, it's not my fault for thinking about this all the fucking time now. Ray's the one who illuminated it for me, talking about secondary agendas and the Id and subconsciousness and sexual frustration manifesting itself as childish tendencies."

Ray's face emerges from its refuge. "I did not!"

"Where's Mikey, I want to ask him about this." Frank tries to get out of the booth. 

Matt grabs his arm. "Dude, I'm saving your life here. Mikey has a pretty good left hook."

"Yeah, and elephants can shit gold clocks. Let go of me." 

That's the last thing Frank remembers saying. The last and the only thing. He wakes up the next morning with pretty much no recollection of the night before, and spends the day wondering why Ray and Matt are looking at him and shaking their heads.

 

*

 

It's nice and sunny outside when Frank tears out several pages from Gerard's journal and tapes them up on the windshield. They were totally the less embarrassing pages; Frank had made sure to peruse the whole thing and choose carefully. It probably didn't even matter anyway because it was mostly abstract shit, none of the 'Dear Diary, today I ...' stuff. Dear Diary, today I am harboring feelings for Frank. None of that. 

This time, Gerard kisses him first. 

 

*

 

"What the hell is going on?" Mikey asks Frank before he's even put down his guitar.

"Yeah, I kind of want to know when we became a backing band to a gay one-act," Ray chimes in. 

Frank drops to his knees and pulls his guitar over his head. "I'll stop if he stops," he says, resting the guitar into its case with care.

"What the hell is going on, seriously?" Mikey repeats.

"You missed a lot. Frank and Gerard were taking turns doing shit to annoy each other and then it all somehow morphed into a game of gay chicken," Ray explains quickly and succinctly. 

"Because it pushes his buttons," Frank says, on the defensive now. It's kind of hard to talk because Gerard had kissed him with mostly teeth.

Mikey rolls his eyes. "Jesus Christ. You had to do this on tour?"

"Tour's gonna be over in a couple days," says Ray. "Just be glad you missed 99% of it. Speaking of, what the hell have you been doing this whole time?"

"Hanging out with the other bands. Kind of talking to another dude who might want to tour manage us next time. Normal stuff.  _Not_  acting like an 8th grader with a crush," Mikey looks at Frank, "or his 10th grader older sister." He looks at Ray. 

Frank feels like he's being lectured by Mikey Way. It's weird. "What's with the role reversal?" Ray asks eventually.

"I have no idea." Even Mikey looks kind of unnerved. "But I'm going to stop now."

"I'm gonna go have a cigarette," Frank announces, already beginning to walk away. He doesn't even realize he's lying until he slips into the bathroom and jerks off with his forehead pressed against the cold tiled wall. 

 

*

 

They had taken a poll and decided to gun it back home through the night. Frank pictures his bed, with the clean sheets and the nice comforter.  _I can survive one more night_ , he thinks, and curls up on the floor of the van to make himself more compact. Matt had thrown out all the empty boxes that used to hold merch and taken out the backseat to move it up a row, which had opened up a sea of space in the back of the van, but there were still guitar cases and bags of souvenirs taking up room. 

Something hits him on the head. It turns out to be a paper plane, with a tip that looks lethally sharp but has been scrunched up upon impact with his hoodie. Frank unfolds it.

_Truce?_

There hasn't been an incident for about a week or so, most likely because they're too tired to deal with it. Frank crumbles the note, takes aim upside down, and tosses it up. Gerard turns around when it bounces off the back of his head. Frank motions for him to come down, and he gives Frank a wary look.

_Nothing planned_ , Frank says silently, holding his arms up. He seriously has no idea what he's going to do or say. 

Gerard stares at him. Finally, he climbs over the back of the seat and squeezes himself into a tiny square of space. Frank rolls over a bit to help him out. After a few moments of rearranging limbs and such, Gerard is sitting up against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest while Frank is still lying down on his side, his head by Gerard's feet. 

"Hi," says Frank. 

"I'm so pissed at you," whispers Gerard.

"Me too. A little."

It's silent. Frank listens to Ray's soft snores and Mikey's sleep-whistling through his teeth and Matt's off-key humming and feels a sudden warmth in his chest, like he can't tamper down his fucking affection for these guys. This guy right here in particular.

"Things kind of got out of hand," he offers. "I just wanted to apologize. You know I like pushing people. Sometimes it's hard to stop, even though I know I should."

Gerard has started to bite his nails, stopping every now and then to examine what he's just chewed. Chew, examine. Chew, examine. "I'm sorry too," he finally says. "I'll buy you new shoes."

Frank cracks a smile. "I'll buy you a new  _Hellboy_."

"And a new journal," Gerard reminds him. "And a new bag of dignity."

"You owe me a shirt. And whole lotta other shit."

"Yeah, maybe." Gerard directs a smile to him, and shit. Frank is so done for. The van rumbles on. For some reason, Frank figures it's better to say what he's going to say before they're home. What happens outside of Jersey stays outside of Jersey, or something. 

"I think it's unresolved sexual tension," Frank says while staring forward at Gerard's shoes. The toes were worn down, with most of the color rubbed away to plain canvas. 

Surprisingly enough, Gerard has a decent response time. Maybe he's just not connecting the dots. "You were a psychology major, you think everything's because of unresolved sexual tension."

"Maybe." Gerard's looking at him with wide eyes. Jesus, Frank can't take this anymore. "I mean. That's the explanation I'll use if you aren't down for this."

"This?" Gerard looks confused for a moment, but then his face clears before Frank has time to open the door and fling himself out onto the highway. "Oh my god," he whispers violently. "You  _were_  pulling my pigtails, Ray said so but I thought he was just bullshitting me. You totally started this whole thing!"

"Well, it didn't  _start_  that way," Frank insists, then admits, "but it ended that way, I guess." 

"Yeah." Gerard wipes his fingertips over his pants. "Me too. I think everyone knew but us. How embarrassing."

"Probably." Frank nods. He still can't figure out what the fuck Gerard was saying, exactly. Had he been doing everything with the same intentions as Frank? Was he weirded out? What?

"So," Gerard starts. He picks at the toes of his shoes, further exposing his feet to the world.

Frank sits up. "So," he echoes. Gerard is staring at him openly, like he always does. Not for the first time, Frank tries to imagine what Gerard is seeing. He quickly licks his bottom lip.

Gerard cocks his head to the side. 

Frank inches closer, more of a shift of his body than anything. 

Gerard doesn't back away. 

Frank can't help it. "Are we - " he begins to whisper. 

And for the second time in his life, Gerard kisses him first.


End file.
